


Bleak Midwinter

by rubygirl29



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Christmas stories, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-20
Updated: 2011-12-20
Packaged: 2017-10-27 15:42:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,836
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/297434
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rubygirl29/pseuds/rubygirl29





	Bleak Midwinter

_What then can I give him? Empty as I am.  
If I were a shepherd, I would bring a lamb.  
If I were a wise man, I would know my part.  
What then can I give him? I must give my heart._

John Sheppard looked out on the steppe-like plains in front of the Stargate and wondered why it had seemed like a good idea to visit PXM-740. He shivered inside the winter parka he wore and wished the annoying tickle at the back of his throat would stop. He wasn’t even sure when it had started -- some time after gating out of Atlantis.

He looked at Ronon. “You recognize this place?”

Ronon shook his head. “No. I stayed away from planets like this. Too cold. Too hard to find food and clothes to keep warm. Even the Wraith didn’t come here.”

“I thought if the Wraith avoided this place, you’d like it.”

“The tracking implant would have told them I was here and they’d have been waiting at the next place I stepped through the ring.”

“There is that,” Sheppard agreed. He glanced at Ronon, wondering again about those seven years he had been a runner. Ronon just stared out towards the horizon. Sheppard pulled out the tablet McKay had said was would point them to the source of the faint energy signature. Rodney had begged off this assignment. It figured one of the generators would start acting up just as they were putting this little party together. “Looks like it’s this way.”

Ronon heaved a sigh. “Why don’t we just come back in the spring?”

“Because with the _Daedalus_ in the Milky Way and a generator on the fritz, McKay felt this might be something interesting.”

“Interesting to him.” Ronon shouldered his pack. Like Sheppard, he was wearing a parka; unlike Sheppard, he was inured to hard-living and extremes of temperature. He’d seen Sheppard shivering and he didn’t like it. “You okay?” he asked.

“I think I’m catching a cold.”

“We should go back.”

“It’s a _cold_! Last time I had one, it turned out to be a good thing, so stop looking at me and let’s get this over with.”

“Fine.”

“Fine.” He started out in the direction the faint energy signature was indicating.

An hour later, he felt like crap. His throat was on fire, his muscles were starting to ache, and pain radiated into his skull with every jarring step they took over the rocks. A sting of icy needles against his face brought him back from his misery. An hard, wind-driven sleet had started to fall. He wasn’t even sure how far ahead of him Ronon was. Sheppard was stubborn, but he knew when it was time to pull the plug on an op. “This sucks,” he called into the wind. “Let’s go back to the gate.” He startled when a large shape loomed in front of him. Ronon’s fur-lined parka hood was dripping icicles, his goatee had frosted over. “You look like Dr. Zhivago,” John gasped.

“Doc who?” Ronon peered at Sheppard.”You’re not making any sense.”

“I said let’s go back to the gate.”

“We can’t. It’s nightfall and the footing is bad. And I thought I heard wargas.”

Wargas. Great. Huge, hungry wolf-like animals that Sheppard had hoped to never see or hear again. “Maybe it was just the storm,” he suggested. Then he heard it; the thin, high howl rising over the wind. “If we don’t go back to the gate we’ll be warga kibble.”

“I found a hut. Probably belongs to a herdsman. We can spend the night there, go back in the morning. You don’t look so good.”

“I’m just cold and standing here isn’t warming me up.” A spasm of coughing nearly bent him double. He held off Ronon with a hand. “Let’s get out of this. I’ll be okay.”

“Uh-huh.” Ronon wrapped his arm around John’s shoulders. “It’s not too far to the hut.”

He leaned into Ronon’s warmth. “Let’s go.”

^*^*^*^*^*^*^

Ronon built a fire in a shallow bowl-shaped depression that served as a hearth. The chimney was nothing more than a hole overhead, and the flames hissed as melting sleet dripped from the roof, which had been cobbled together from sticks and planks. The walls were rough-hewn stone, and old. They had probably sheltered countless generations of herdsmen, Sheppard thought.

“This place is old,” Ronon said, his mind following John’s as it often did. He nodded in the direction of a pile of boughs and grasses. “Bed’s over there if you want to lie down.”

“Thanks, but I’ll pass. At the risk of sounding like McKay, I’ll bet every single generation that slept there left not only dirt, but also their own personal vermin.”

Ronon grinned and handed him an MRE. Sheppard looked at it. “My throat’s too sore.”

“You have to eat.” Ronon took out a different pack. “Macaroni and cheese?”

“Okay.”

Ronon activated the chempak and passed the meal over. Sheppard forced the food down his throat and was surprised that when he finished, he felt better, warmer. Ronon had finished his own meal and crouched next to Sheppard. He touched his forehead. “You’re hot.”

“I have a fever. There is a slight semantic difference,” John said. He was suddenly tired. A chill worked its way down his spine. “How can you be hot and cold at the same time?” he wondered out loud.

“Here.” Ronon handed him two pills and a canteen. “For the fever.”

“And the chills?”

“You don’t want to use the bed, you might as well lean on me.” He slid behind Sheppard, settled him against his chest and between his long legs. “Better?”

Sheppard felt surrounded by warmth. Ronon’s big body was like a bulwark against the cold night and the shivers that shook him. He tilted his head, studying Ronon through his lashes. Usually, he wasn’t keen on touching. An encouraging pat on a shoulder, a handshake for a job well-done ... but to be held like this? This was new, and John _liked_ it. This wasn’t delirium, it was Ronon, who smelled like leather and smoke and cold air, who fought with deadly skill, who had saved his life more than once. Ronon, who was a friend, and Sheppard was wondering if he could be more ...

He raised his hand, touched the angle of Ronon’s jaw. Ronon raised a brow, looked down at him. “Sheppard?”

John drew a thumb over the full curve of Ronon’s low lip and to his shock and surprise, Ronon kissed the pad of his thumb. “It’s not the fever,” John said.

“No.” Ronon’s arms tightened around John comfortingly. “Not for me, either.”

“Okay.” The enormity of what has just been acknowledged was something his woozy mind couldn’t hold on to; it fluttered away like a released butterfly. He decided it wouldn’t hurt to snuggle a bit closer. He sighed, closed his eyes and went to sleep.

^*^*^*^*^*^*^

John didn’t know what had waked him. Perhaps the silence. The wind had stopped howling. It was dark, he was warm, and he was still cradled in Ronon’s arms. He moved and Ronon’s eyes opened, fully aware and on alert. “Sheppard?”

“I’m better. Stuffy, but I think my fever is gone and my throat isn’t so sore.” He sneezed. “Well, mostly better.” He sat up, looked at his watch. Closer to morning than night, but not near sunrise. Ronon clambered to his feet and held out his hand. John let his strength pull him to his feet, and when Ronon didn’t release his clasp on his forearm, he stepped in. “I remember what I said last night and I wasn’t delirious.”

Ronon smiled. “I know.”

He bent his head and John felt the brush of his lips. Nice. He wanted more, but held back. “You’ll catch my cold.”

“I’m never sick.” Ronon’s tongue feathered lightly across his mouth. John yielded, gripping Ronon’s arms tightly. He wasn’t about to let Dex think he had the upper hand here even though he had no intention -- no desire -- to break the kiss until he had to take a breath. And he did have to breathe ... eventually.

“Sorry, can’t breathe -- and don’t look so smug. It’s the stuffy nose.”

“Uh-huh.” But Ronon still looked smug.

“I need to go outside for a minute.” John opened the flimsy door. “Wow, look at this ...” Huge snowflakes were falling even as a pale moon tried to break through the clouds. It shone on the snow, glittered on the flakes as they fell. The landscape was hard country, both bleak and beautiful. He looked up. “Hey, I just remembered. Today is Christmas Eve. It ought to snow.”

Ronon stood behind him and wrapped him in his arms. “Does that mean something special?” John felt the heat of his breath melting the snow on his hair. He reached up and brushed the shattered flakes away.

“I’ll explain in a minute. Otherwise I’ll piss on your boots.” A brief rumble of laughter against John’s back and then he stepped away to tend to his own needs.

Back in the hut, Sheppard started to pack things up. Ronon leaned against the wall. “You could help,” John muttered.

“We’re not going anywhere until full daylight.”

“I’m fine.”

“Snow is disorienting. Slippery. One false step, you go down with a broken ankle. Just ‘cause I let you sleep on me doesn’t mean I want to lug you all the way to the gate. We’ll eat. Wait out the snow.” He fanned the banked ashes into flame. He had heated water using an MRE hot pack, and stirred in some instant coffee. He handed the flimsy cup to John before he rose, then held John by the shoulder and with gentle force made him sit. He slid behind him as he had last night.

“You don’t have to do this,” John said.

“Maybe I _want_ to do this,” Ronon replied, wrapping his arms around John. He handed him a power bar. “So, tell me about this snow on Christmas thing.”

“Well, there was this movie about this general who fought in WWII -- remember that movie _Saving Private Ryan_? That war. After he was done fighting, he retired and ran this inn, which wasn’t doing too well because the weather was warm. Two of his former soldiers were a team -- a musical team -- actors, singers, and they got together to help this General who had led them through the war. They put on this show at the inn, invited all the soldiers who had served with him and raised enough money to allow the general to keep the inn open.”

“What about the snow?”

“I’m getting to that. There is this song, _I’m Dreaming of a White Christmas,_ that Bing Crosby --”

“Bing?” Ronon arched a brow.

“Hey, it’s his name. I’m not responsible for that part. Anyhow, this song is probably the second most popular Christmas tune next to Jingle Bells. And everybody dreams of a white Christmas because it’s something amazing. One day I’ll take you to Earth and you’ll see Christmas like it ought to be done with lights, and carols and snow.”

“It always snows?”

John thought of some places he had lived and served. California, Hawaii, the Middle East. “No. And some places never see it at all. But for a real, traditional Christmas, you ought to be someplace with at least the hope for snow.” John sighed. “When my mom was alive, dad would take us skiing up in the mountains where there’s almost always snow. There would be this big pine tree in the lodge, lit up with lights and decorated with shiny ornaments, and a star on the top of the tree ... it was something to see ... “

John’s voice was slowing and his head was heavy and drowsy against Ronon’s shoulder. His eyes closed and Ronon shifted him to a more comfortable position. Outside, the snow continued. If John had memories of a white Christmas, then this year, he would get one ... at least in this place.

^*^*^*^*^*^*^

“Sheppard ... Sheppard. C’mon, time to wake up.”

John sat up. He blinked the sleep from his eyes. A patch of bright sunlight was coming through the hole in the roof. “Storm over?”

“Yeah. You feel up to for a walk back to the gate?”

“Just try to stop me,” John grinned. “As much as I like sleeping with you ... I’d rather be _sleeping_ with you.” The shock and anticipation in Ronon’s expression made him ridiculously happy.

They packed up. Ronon shouldered the equipment, John took the supplies. Ronon looked at him. “What about the power source?”

“Rodney will have to deal with coal in his stocking this year. No ZPMs or naquaddah for him. We’ll come back in the Spring. Let’s go home for Christmas.”

The snow was nearly past the tops of Sheppard’s boots, but it was light and fluffy powder. If there had been a mountain in sight, it would have been great skiing. No mountains, just the vast, sere plain. No sign of any human inhabitants. There might be villages somewhere in the distance, or they might have all been culled. That, too, was a puzzle for another time.

They made their way cautiously over the stony ground, Ronon sticking close to Sheppard in case he needed a hand, but aside from an occasional sniffle, and cough, he seemed to have recovered quickly.

John looked up at the sky. “More clouds are moving in,” he said.

“We’re almost there ... look.”

John could see the black ring of the gate less than a mile away. They picked up the pace. As they neared the DHD, the snow started falling again, and Sheppard heard the howl of wargas, much closer. Too close for comfort. Dark shapes were emerging through the curtain of falling snow. “Hit it, Chewie!”

“You dial. I’ll take care of the wargas. We’re coming in hot!”

John punched in the address, hit the central control. The _whoosh_ of the gate nearly drowned out the howls of the warga pack emerging from the driven snow. Ronon’s gun flared. “C’mon!” John sent his IDC, grabbed Ronon’s arm and pulled him through the gate, still firing as a warga sprang towards the wormhole.

John turned in time to see Ronon falling backwards into the control room, a huge warga pinning him to the floor. Before the snapping jaws could close on Ronon’s forearm, Evan Lorne placed two unerring shots into the warga, which twitched a few times and died. The commotion faded as Lorne with the help of several marines pulled the carcass off Ronon.

He sat up, groaning. “Thanks.” He pressed a hand to his ribs.

Sheppard knelt beside him. “Medical team to the gate room!”

“Don’t need it.” But he winced with every breath he took.

Sheppard looked for blood. No wounds. “Well, let’s just make sure.”

Beckett came over. He gave the warga a distasteful look. “It didn’t scratch or bite you?” He was checking for injuries. The only thing that got a response was a yelp from Ronon when he pressed lightly on a rib. “Cracked rib here. We’ll get an x-ray just to be sure that’s all it is.”

Ronon grimaced, but didn’t argue with Beckett as John helped him up. Elizabeth came up to them. “We were worried.”

“Sorry. We got caught in a snowstorm ... and surrounded by hungry wargas. So, Ronon found a hut and we stayed the night. No way to get to the gate to send a message.”

“And Sheppard got sick,” Ronon supplied helpfully.

“I got a _cold_.” He sneezed as if to prove his point. “That’s all.”

Elizabeth gave him one of her looks. “Go to the infirmary and get checked out. That’s an order. And Major Lorne ... open a wormhole and send the carcass back to the planet.”

“You don’t want a warga fur rug for your study, ma’am?” Lorne joked, and received a blistering glare in return, but with a quiver of laughter at the corner of Weir’s mouth.

“Yes, ma’am.” Lorne looked at the dead warga with distaste. He motioned to Chuck to open dial the gate. Three hefty marines hoisted the carcass up to the wormhole horizon and let it suck the warga out of Atlantis.

^*^*^*^*^*^*^

Beckett kept John and Ronon in the infirmary overnight to be certain John’s ailment wasn’t more than the cold he claimed, and to allow Ronon a good night’s sleep with the aid of pain killers. The x-rays had been negative for fractures, but his back and side were still badly bruised. It would be a while before the he would be moving with his customary ease.

John woke to the sound of Christmas carols being piped into the infirmary. He turned his head. Ronon was still sleeping, looking young yet fierce as he curled in on himself.

Sheppard sighed and sat up, alerting Dr. Cole, who came over to check his vitals. “Good?” he asked when she was finished. He knew the answer, but it never hurt to hear the official verdict.

“Perfect.” She smiled. “You’re out of here, Colonel.”

“Ronon?”

“As soon as he wakes up, he’s good to go, as long as he doesn’t decide it’s a great morning to run a marathon.”

Ronon opened an eye. “I won’t.” He grimaced as he sat up. “Ow ... hurts.”

Cole went over to his bedside and did the usual checks on vital signs. “Aside from the bruises, you’re fine. Just take it easy for a few days.”

“Okay.”

“Easy, as in no running, bantos matches, or subduing the marines. Gentle stretching is fine as long as it doesn’t hurt too much, and if it does, stop it.” She folded her stethoscope. Patted his shoulder. “Have a Merry Christmas.”

John got swung his legs over the side of the bed. There were had clean fatigues folded on a chair. Ronon also had clean clothes, including a side-wrap tunic that wouldn’t pull on his injured ribs. “I’m guessing Teyla,” John said, smiling.

“Don’t think it was McKay,” Ronon grunted as he reached for his clothes and slowly dressed. John couldn’t help watching the slide of his muscles beneath the smooth skin. Ronon turned his head, caught John looking, and looked away trying to hide a twitch of a grin. “Let’s get out of here.”

John smiled back. He knew he was blushing, but right now, he didn’t care. They wandered down to Sheppard’s quarters. John was about to let him in, when he had a thought. “You know what? It’s Christmas, and I have a few things I’d like to do.”

“Okay.” There was something in his eyes that pushed John into action. He pulled Ronon inside, and backed him against the wall. He tugged on Ronon’s dreads and brought him down for a kiss that left them both flushed and breathless. “You thought I was having second thoughts about this, right?”

Ronon grinned. “Yeah.”

“Well, you’re wrong.”

Ronon bent close and whispered. “I’ve been wrong before. I think I’ll survive.”

“Good. But I still have things I need to do.”

“Me, too.”

“Secrets?” John teased, but Ronon gave nothing away. He ran a quick hand over John’s hair and left, heading towards his own room. John tried not to look too pleased with himself. In addition to a few small gifts for his team, he had something else in mind for Ronon.

^*^*^*^*^*^*^

They met on the east pier. The air was cold ... not like it had been on the other planet, but it was chilly by Atlantis standards. Overhead, the stars blazed brighter than the city’s lights. If McKay’s calculations were right -- and this was one area that John trusted Rodney to be right -- it would be good.

He felt more than heard Ronon’s presence. A weight in the air, a shift in the wind, the faint brush of a soft-soled shoe on the stones. There was a warmth on his back as Ronon stood behind him. “Why are we out here freezing?” Ronon asked as he wrapped his arms around John.

“Because there’s something I want you to see.”

“What?”

John looked at his watch. “In a few minutes.”

“Okay. Then there’s time for this.” He turned John to face him, put a big hand behind his head and bent down for a kiss. When it ended, John thought his knees had somehow dissolved. He clung to Ronon’s arms. “Doesn’t this throw you just a little?” he asked.

“No. Things are different where I come from.”

John’s only response was a tilt of his head. He looked up at the sky. “Look up.”

A bright light streaked across the blue-black, star-studded sky. It was followed shortly by another, and then more until they were beyond count; falling as thickly as the snow on the ice planet.

“When Rodney’s right, he’s right.” John marveled. Intellectually, he knew that the meteor shower was an annual event, at times more spectacular than others. McKay had said this would be a particularly notable occurrence. “Before we went to the planet, this was going to be your white Christmas.”

Ronon was silent, his profile upturned to the shower overhead. John wasn’t sure, but he thought he saw a glitter on Ronon’s eyelashes. “Thank you.”

“You saved my life more than once,” John said.

“I always will.”

“I know,” John sighed and relaxed against Ronon’s chest. He felt the strong beat of his heart at his back, guarding him, saving him, now, more than ever. He looked at Ronon. “Let’s go inside. I shouldn’t be out in this cold ... might get pneumonia.”

“Right.” But he was grinning. “Time to unwrap my present.”

John felt himself blushing hotly. “What about your ribs?”

Ronon just laughed. “I wasn’t going to use my ribs.” He laid an arm around John’s shoulders and whispered, “Merry Christmas. He stumbled a little over the words, foreign to his tongue, and John felt the warmth clear to his heart.

^*^*^*^*^*^*^

Later, wrapped in blankets, sweat cooling after the rush of sex, and still vibrating from the rough scratch of Ronon’s dreadlocks and goatee on his abdomen, John gave a self-satisfied sigh and tugged him up for a kiss that tasted like sex and dark honey. Ronon grunted softly as his ribs tightened, and John pushed the tendrils of hair back from his forehead. “You okay?”

Ronon made a noncommital sound deep in his throat. “Nothing time won’t heal,” he said. He turned to his back to take the pressure off his ribs.

“You might be more comfortable in your own bed.”

“Doubt it. You want me to leave?”

“No.” He confirmed it with another kiss.

Ronon moved closer and John cautiously settled against his warmth. John yawned, looked up at Ronon. His eyes were already half-closed, his mouth relaxed. John drew a finger across his lower lip. “Merry Christmas,” he whispered and felt Ronon’s lips curve slightly, but he didn’t rouse.

 _Merry Christmas_. He’d never thought that he would have to cross two galaxies to finally understand the meaning of those simple words.

 **The End**


End file.
